


If You Could Save Yourself (You'd Save Us All)

by AngieW



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: All of it is confused, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Confused Mcharrison mess, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I don't even know who reads mcharrison, I hope you will like it!, Let It Be/Get Back Sessions, M/M, Making Up, Past Relationship(s), Quick sex scene of like three line, Swearing, There's also a litte humor cause I couldn't write only angst, This is just a pretext to practice writing George's pov tbh, and a fluffy ending, i don't know why i wrote that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28480668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngieW/pseuds/AngieW
Summary: When Paul knocks on George's door one night in 1969, George's not expecting to find a drunken mess who can barely walk straight.No, tonight he had planned to have a quiet night getting high on his bed while feeling bitter and lonely, troubles churning in his head.Instead there's Paul. Paul, dead on his feet. Paul, who suddenly decided to "have a chat" with him. Paul that worries George just as much as he angers him. Paul, that George lov-... Alright. They'll "chat" and see where it goes.
Relationships: George Harrison/Paul McCartney
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	If You Could Save Yourself (You'd Save Us All)

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR !  
> ...With some mcharrison 1969 angst and fluff  
> Lol this is a thing I worked on because of a song and because I needed to practice George's pov and angst. I don't know why I did mcharrison, tbh I don't know who reads mcharrison. Or 1969 angst. Or a confused mcharrison thing.  
> BUT ! If you're reading this that means you are here for that, and I thank you very much for giving this confused one shot a try ^^ I sincerely hope you will enjoy this, and you will found it to your liking ^^ Dont hesitate to leave a comment to let me know ! 
> 
> And here's the song that inspired the work: https://open.spotify.com/track/23kvk9KEBcXVslzqanVEnC (aka If you could save yourself you'd save us all by Ween). I recommend you listen to it, maybe loop it, cause it kinda gives you the mood of the story (but you dont have to)
> 
> And now enjoy ^^

It was all his fault.

In the end, it was all his fault.

The band breaking apart; the dragging recording sessions with no end; the constant beating on their exhausted brains; the spit flying from their mouths to strike the other in the face. The songs that were rejected, the perfection never being attained, the _“not good enough”_ and the _“we’re almost there”_ and _“just one more time”_. Maddening heated summer days falling to mournful autumn evenings collapsing to sleepless tiring winter nights. A downfall happening in slow motion. His shrill and fake voice hammering on his nerves from the morning to the moment he tuned it out. Music. Music, music! There was only it! No pain, no choices, no lives. Music! Punching them, wearying them, wrecking them. Music music music! Behind it all, the crazed and inhuman conductor, orchestrating everything. The man at fault.

This was all Paul’s fault.

George was on his bed; it was an early night, barely ten; Saturday. Should have been out, having fun, laughing his head off, drunk and high; an arm circling his girlfriend’s shoulder, hand brushing her breast. Instead, staying in, room barely lit, form resting on the cover, looking at the ceiling with the butt of his fag on his lips. Wearing his sorrows and resentments on the sleeves of a flannel shirt, legs dead in tight fleece-lined trousers. Arms above his head, hands gripping his wrists, a prisoner. Girlfriend was not home, she was barely there anymore. Barely loved her anyway. She was away from all that fucked up jam session that became their lives. From the scattered, repeated, polluting thoughts of bitterness and sadness and exhaustion; the band rolled and rolled, pressed by a rolling pin on a constant rhythm, flattening his spirit. Leaving him flat on the bed with no energy to grab another cigarette. With his sole rancor as a sole companion for the night.

He didn’t think of John, that night. The rude and ironic man, whose company was still likeable, wasn’t bothering him. Was too far gone anyway to really wound George again. He had in the past. At the present time, he was too high, head in the clouds with his lover, to be taken seriously. A funny man.

He didn’t think of Ringo. Sweet Ringo, who reeked of alcohol and whose smiles were vanishing; they came back once in a while. He never bothered him. Actually sometimes he did, when he tried relentlessly to calm him down, told him to ignore the others or try to understand them. He fucking didn’t want to understand. But sweet Ringo, at the end of the day, was the last one to make sure he was going home with a smile.

He thought of Paul.

Before beginning this trail, he sat up, seized another fag, flung the other one; lit it, put it to his lips, inhaled; sigh. It was his fifteenth in the last two hours.

Paul. Trying to save their asses: failing ridiculously, hands flapping uselessly. The band disintegrated in front of his eyes and instead of leaving them to rot, he cleaned up the mess and came back with a fake smile on his face. Fucking cunt. Nobody asked him to. What he had been asked to, he didn’t do it. Artificial cheering, pretended listening, so-called friendship, forgotten love. The _"what if you did that?"_ , the _"that's not what I meant"_ and the _"I just want to help!"_ constantly streaming in his ears. An incessant loud amount of shoddy optimism and desperate hope and dreams. Masking a deep deep emptiness. Making them work themselves to death. Ending up doing everything on his own; without them; without George. Disrespectful.

He wanted to save them from a shipwreck while he had already drowned. 

George muffled an irritated yell in his hands, fag hanging limply between squeezing fingers. Fuck him. Fuck him and his bloody perfectionism and blindness. Fuck him for leaving George on the side once again.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? When John went to fuck off with his current beloved obsession, Paul was left alone: let down. It had given George hope to rekindle the bound they once shared. The confident glint, the knowing smiles, the talks around guitars and the quick grazes of a hand on hiking trips. Simply desiring to be let in once again, just like he had been so long ago; until he got kicked out. But then Paul started to drown and when George extended his hand to hoist him up, it was slapped out of the way. Worst, it was replaced by Paul reversing the situation: dispensing his stupid advices, assisting when it wasn’t needed, demanding him if he was alright. Hypocrite. Just like John. But at least, John had drowned hand in hand with someone he loved, and George was almost envious of that. Because Paul, he wouldn’t give his hand to anybody, even if it could save his life. Would rather die than plead for help.

Today, at the studio, Paul had been struggling with a song. Something he hadn’t named yet, something he had just a quick melody of. He was struggling, couldn’t pin down the chords. Rare enough in the past, but with the shadows under his eyes, that kind of focus was harder to grasp. In a pleasant mood, he joined his side, hips pressed to his and listened. Listened longly. Then he suggested a chord arrangement, something that accompanied it enough until he found something better. A little advice that for once, came from George. The answer he received: “That’s not a very good advice George, it’s not really perfect,” followed by careless suggestions as to how he could have improved his proposition. Just- that was not- Lik- FUCK.

His hands flew from his face: one punched the mattress in frustration, while the other flew to his lips to inhale loudly. The smoke escaping his mouth didn’t take away his bitterness. That was the problem. Ultimately, George was the baby: the little brother, whose advice was shit, who couldn’t aid at all, who needed to be aided, to be guided; still learning endlessly _. Let Paul and John hold that guitar and make a song, you’re too young for that!_ He tried to be of assistance, to show he knew how to produce stuff, to prove they weren’t almighty and shit: nothing. Didn’t work. He was pushed to the side with a little pat on the head, maybe a condescending “good boy!” and that was it. And Paul, Paul who was dead on his feet, no strength in his limbs, still pushed him aside. Didn’t let George help, but tried to help George, even though George was fine, and Paul was not. Paul was the kind of person who could have a bullet in his arm but stop you as you were bandaging it to tell you: “no wait honey you’re doing it wrong, let me show you how to.” 

Just for once, George would like to be the one to help. For once, show that no, he wasn’t the younger clumsy and blunt kid Paul had known anymore. Paul could rely on him. Could trust him. Give him a chance. Step back, and permit him to do it.

He still loved him. He never stopped no matter how badly it got.

Between the swirling thoughts of frustration and fierce resentment, from downstairs there was a sound: a knock. The gates had been opened, someone could have easily slid in, but no one did anymore. But still, that knock. Followed by two others. The last one slowed down before landing on the door, because the sound of something slipping replaced the distinct noise. Then nothing.

He had heard it.

The fog in his head cleared. He sighed. Perhaps he had to go… he had nothing to do anyway. Maybe it would be a distraction. From everything. There was no one, there was only him. If the person behind the door could reverse the depressing mood of the night, he'd gladly let them inside. With a little luck, it would be Ringo. He hoped it was. Would stop him from rambling.

With heavy legs, he got himself off the bed.

It felt like crawling to the door, with how much he despised socialising nowadays. His patience for people was nonexistent these last years.

The knocking was gone when he arrived; humming sounds were muffled, barely melodious. Enough of his time had been wasted already. Gripping the doorknob, he pulled it forward and it opened-

On Paul.

Well, if that wasn't fucking ironic.

Figure hunched over on his doorway, dark coat hastily thrown on his frame, brown trousers and a blue pullover. His hair was in disarray as if he had run his hands through it too many times. He still had that ugly beard. His glazed eyes had been turned down before George was here, but it took him a full minute to blink and look up. He seemed absurdly trashed; far from mister perfectionist "I've got this" image. But George wasn't sure if he was pissed drunk or about to cry or going to fall asleep right there. Maybe all of them. Kept blinking stupidly. The only thing he knew was that Paul reeked; if he was considering stepping inside George was sending him to the bath: he was tired of being surrounded by stinky people.

After the tenth blink of Paul's eyes and still nothing — it was actually troubling him, as much as he despised that fact — he found himself to be the first to speak.

"Yes?"

He wasn't going to waste his saliva for more than that.

The man in question pushed himself off the wall, dizzy hands clasping George's shoulders, a satisfied smile plastered on his face. "Heyyy Georgie!" he flinched at the loud voice: of course someone had to ruin his quietness. "Can I com' inside and… maybe you know we can hav' a chat and… please?"

Huh. He was thoroughly drunk. To be honest, he shouldn’t have been surprised about that: there was no way Paul would have dared to come here if he didn’t have a bit of alcohol in his system. Or a lot. He couldn’t evaluate that yet. However, the tiny drops of worry that had made themselves known earlier didn’t recoil: it hadn't turned to a storm yet, but he wasn’t at ease. Because for Paul to say “please”, it meant there was something seriously wrong.

He didn’t like to worry; then he would want to help Paul, and the man would dismiss him like he was incapable.

Yet, he couldn’t just retain the slurring man out. With a sigh, he answered positively. Paul beamed back — which would have been nice if it didn’t look like death — and made his way inside. Before he followed him, George looked outside: the night sky was thick with clouds and there wasn’t even a faint trace of stars; the air was cold and humid. Soon it would rain.

Stepping back in his house, he had to halt in the living-room. Furrowed brows inspected his surroundings: there was no Paul. Alarm spiking in his chest, he furiously looked around the floor, the kitchen, the steps, concerned the drunk bassist had collapsed somewhere: nothing. There was no one here: no dark shape giggling stupidly and acting like a curious child, as Paul always did when he was drunk. Had he actually dreamt all that? His hands kept fidgeting and he scrutinized the floor once again. Maybe there had been no Paul on his doorstep. Maybe he had made it all up in his head: damn what did he fucking put in his cigarettes? He walked farther, thinking of some place else. It was weird: he was feeling worried, frustrated, and completely lost and that wasn’t a good mix. Following the corridor, he stopped abruptly in front of his room: the door was open and there in his bed was Paul lying face flat and dead silent. So that was where that fucker was hiding: why did he worry he was just annoying once again.

A second sigh in five minutes: he used to be so patient; god he should meditate and get high more often.

Moving in, he approached the lump on his bed. It was lifeless. Immobile, testing George's indulgence once again. With his foot, he tapped the unmoving form's leg, trying to get its attention. It worked, because the form became human. Head topped with greasy curling hair was lifting itself up from the covers, and lazily, the body moved to face him. Paul sat, legs dangling from the bed, arms propping him up; they were trembling. Once again, that goofy artificial grin on his face. Completely drunk he was. Fucking entered his room as if it was the place to be. Well, it wasn’t.

“And what are you doing here now?” George demanded to know, crossing his arms on his chest, his face not twitching from the neutral mask he wore. It seemed it only made Paul’s smile grow wider, corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Ahhh! Was wondering when ya’d finally join me here. Was lonelay, ya know.” 

Yeah well when George felt lonely he didn’t go collapse on one of his bandmate’s beds; he went to a bird’s one. And as far as George knew, he wasn’t a bird.

But Paul was there with his positive smile and his trembling figure and his disgusting smell and droopy eyes; drunk off his ass or whatever he was on that made him mad enough to come here. To leave George to look after an intoxicated Paul. As if that was fucking fun. He didn’t know what to do. Didn’t want to go sit next to him. Didn’t want to feel concerned when he knew he’d get rejected. Didn’t want to be here and just subject himself to whatever almighty McCartney had to talk about. Because almighty McCartney was dangerously paling and still had that grin and it was all too out of place. He couldn’t help the drop of sweat rolling on his temple.

He cleared his throat, hoping to snap Paul out of his reverie. He blinked.

"You wanted to talk?”

Satisfied grin opened; finally some interesting words, perhaps?

"Yeahhhh…” he breathed out in a sigh.

That was it. George’s fingers were twitching on his forearms. He thought he was just getting tired of people and what they called socialisation in general; perhaps he was wrong and he was only just tired with Pau. However, before he could huff, the smile on Paul’s face abruptly vanished. With no warning, it was gone. Instead, a pout. Eyes remained glazed but their eerie happiness was gone. They were dull. The change caught him off guard, but not as much as the words that followed.

“‘M sorry bout today… you not bad at helping out. I was disrespectful,” he droned with a roll of his shoulders. Dropping the first apology in forever.

This time, George blinked. His eyes had widened, and the perpetual frown on his face melted for a second. That was rather… unexpected for the lack of a better word. But not bad, though. He didn't want to fool himself too much — after all he was a resenting person — but that was a nice thought Paul had. For once. Was it why he was here? It was true that they never really apologised much… especially to each other. George's worry slipped away, but his suspicions remained.

"Oh," it felt stupid to say that. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't exactly reply, "yes you were a jackass". Paul had made an effort after all. "Thanks for- 

"But also you're not always good at it you know," Ah, there it was: he took the bait, and now he was in for another row of critics and judgements. His brow lowered into a deadpan expression; really he should have expected no less. All his patience disappeared and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Tone suddenly sounding sober, Paul continued: “And really I don't understand why you don't listen to us more when we try to help you ‘cause you might need it you know I mean-

"Paul," he interrupted once. But Paul kept talking and talking and his left-hand was making wild movements up in the air. Kept spewing nonsense and kept doing it so fast, taking all the power in the conversation: he always did. George's anger rose sharply, his fingers were back on his biceps, gripping them firmly.

"- you know we don't mean anything by it we're just trying to help out and you push us away as if you didn't need it but you know I think if you didn't well-"

"Paul." He interrupted a second time. He was boiling inside and Paul kept talking and blurting out things he didn't understand. But Paul's head was spinning. For real. His hand was moving, and his head went from left to right, back and forth, eyes barely open. And it was scary, but George couldn't let himself be scared when Paul kept spewing shit after shit at him.

"- I wouldn't feel guilty and shit and like I was failing you but I'm not since ya're the one refusing and-" he kept going god he did! "'-you're just slipping away and you know I'm trying to include you in the songs and the band but you just slip away from me and it's like I dunno you could accept my help you know and let me do it and-" That's it George couldn't deal with this shit anymore.

"PAUL."

"-and do you hate me?"

Everything was inhaled back. Anger, resentment, fears: vacuumed clean. Paul's words, finally stopping. There was a pause, but what had been asked wouldn't register in his head. It was blocked. His arms retreated to his sides, and he allowed his face to relax, leaving Paul the benefit of the doubt. Because here, he had perhaps dropped the reason for his visit, just like that.

"... what?"

Paul's face was white as a sheet, and yet… he looked bored and blank. But empty. So empty. So fucking dead. There was no hope in these eyes. No optimism that was so Paul; as if he had dropped the question but he already knew the answer to it. That was what scared him the most.

"Do you hate me?" Paul croaked out, reiterating it.

...

Did he? 

Paul's shaking intensified the longer he took to answer. But he was thinking too much. He needed time to make up his answer: not to Paul; to himself. Because he didn't hate Paul. But… how could he still love him when he was treated like shit?

The frown he wore like a mask didn't waver, and his eyes were looking at the floor, not even at Paul anymore. George liked to have time to think. Being rushed, pushed around, hurried; that wasn't his thing — which was why he hated crowds, and he possessed nothing but bitter memories of their touring days. So he zoned out and rummaged through his head. Not noticing how long he took. Not noticing the dangerous widening of Paul's eyes.

There must have been something off on his face: Paul sprang up and ran to the joint bathroom behind George, hands gripping his mouth. The next thing he heard was heaving and retching behind him. Oh.

Blinking out of his trance, he turned around: Paul was puking his guts out in the toilet, shaking. Great fucking fantastic. It all led to cleaning up the mess, didn't it? He huffed. That grand mix of sad and angry feeling was back.

With a groan, he retrieved a spare pair of clothes — another pullover and some trousers, warm stuff — from the closet and walked in the bathroom. There, he stayed still as he waited for Paul to finish. When he was done, Paul failed to stand, resulting in him tripping back to the floor and George letting go of everything to catch him. Ugh, now that he had him in his arms the smell of booze and "I-didn't-shower-for-a-month" was worse. It took all of his self-control not to drop him again. Arms tightly held by George, legs extended and not supporting his weight, Paul was staring from left to right, mouth open dumbly. The man looked out of it, and- eww there was puke on his beard! Ok, enough time wasted. He hauled him up and released him in the bathtub. There, Paul blinked at him. Again. For the tenth time this evening at least. That was not how he had envisioned this night to go.

"Look," he tried to express himself clearly, a hand extending forward as he aimed to appear collected. "Just take a shower, try to wake up a bit, ok? Here," he pointed to the clothes he had thrown on the floor. "Wear that once you're done. Ok?"

Paul stared. From the bathtub, knees to his chest, he nodded. Agonisingly slow, but he did. Better than nothing.

Sighing, he knelt in front of the bath. Paul kept staring. George wanted to attempt something but… he didn't have much hope. Trying to conceal his flinch of hesitation, his hand reached out to Paul's cheek. Grazing it. Paul didn't move. Let him do it, watching. He- he had missed that… the closeness: for a second, the reason why he was mad at Paul dissipated. Suddenly he was with him, connected. There was no pain. It felt like such a long time ago...

"Will you be fine? Or do you want me to help you?" he asked him in a whisper.

Paul had a second of reflection in his absent gaze. Next he shook his head: no. How unsurprising; even drunk, Paul refused his help. Fine.

And he was exasperated again.

As he was turning around he felt his hand being held to remain on Paul's cheek. Gazing down, he saw Paul smiling. Under foggy eyes, an almost real one.

"Th- thank you," he rasped. His lips caressed his hand, before kissing it.

For a moment, George stayed immobile, mouth agape, cheeks red; he remembered the drops of vomit on Paul's beard and quickly took back his hand. Ok perhaps it was breaking the… whatever this was, but eww! He only mumbled a reply before drying his hand and leaving the bathroom. Slapped the door close, fell on his bed. Peace at last.

The water started to run in the bathroom. Feet sliding, some shuffling, otherwise it remained quiet. Perfect for George to let go of all worries and breathe for a minute. Back on the bed, closed eyes, arms spread; he could have used this time to debate Paul's question. Yet he hadn't had to. Feelings and memories easily slipped in his mind, moments where he squeezed Paul's hand when they were kids, on the bus, sides squeezed together and giggling; playing guitar together in Hamburg, Paul always having his back and reminding him of home; fame and troubles, but that same hand always touching him in affectionate ways; not so long ago, high and cuddling, smiling. But two years had passed since then… two years of dread and sorrow. Of critics and yelling. Breaking apart, losing each other. Losing themselves.

George's eyes slid open. The room was still dark, the curtains weren't drawn and the yellow light from the bedside was faint. The water stopped. Did he hate Paul?

…No. He never did. These memories plagued his mind, forcing a faint smile to appear on his lips. Despite everything, he loved him.

That was why he was so… frustrated and depressed whenever he saw him. Paul was rotting while George still loved him. Paul wasn't letting him help and thought he was all alone. He was excluding George, and his resentment grew and grew: it had gotten so huge he had forgotten that Paul… that yes he loved him. However, with that moment when he had kissed his hand, and even before when he had asked him if he hated him, he looked just like the Paul he knew. The Paul who still considered him enough to let him in.

The bathroom door creaked open. Straightening up, he was up on his feet, instant worry making him ready to catch him. But, Paul's face had become clearer, and his eyes were no longer glazed. No small smile on his face. He looked hesitant, clutching the doorknob before releasing it with a sigh. Facing George, the shadows under his eyes were more prominent. He was more sober. Graver. Depressing. Fucking enormous beard.

It was deplorable to think he had preferred to see him drunk ten minutes ago. Even with the vomit on his lips: at least he had been smiling then.

Paul started to fidget under his hardened gaze. Glancing at the floor, he hummed, scratching his beard.

"So…" 

It was a long one. Not shy. Gruff. As if he couldn't get the words out. George wondered what he was searching for in his mind. During this, he tried not to cross his arms, not allow his impatience to be shown. Conferring him… perhaps some hope.

His thoughts were a mess.

Paul cleared his throat: a dry and nasty sound that had made the droopy eyes frown for a second. George still scrutinised his every move. Wishing he wouldn't just tell him he desired to leave. At this point, he could stay. He could… remain here with him. Only if he wanted to. Only if.

George didn't want him to go. He had already ruined his night: leaving now wouldn't give him a chance to salvage it.

Finally, Paul seemed to make a resolution: after taking a step backward, he changed his mind, clasping his feet together, arms hugging himself. He sent him a swift glare, as if it was George's fault he stayed. Or perhaps, was it because of something else and-

"Why do you hate me?"

… oh. That question again. A wave of uneasiness and weariness hit him, and he shook his head, slowly. His eyes stung as he rubbed them: he thought this had been a drunk only question or something and Paul would pretend he never uttered it: no. Paul was determined to have a confrontation tonight it seemed.

Sure George would have liked him to stay: not for that. But... it was a rare event he couldn't miss.

After his fingers had massaged the corners of his eyes enough for him to see better — which was rubbish since they stung even more now — he began to answer, a bit too condescending. Hands going up and down.

"I don't hate you Paul I-"

"You're lying!" A harsh yell, snapping his mouth shut, eyes widening. Paul, whose face had been pale a minute ago, was furious and boiling red. His fists were tight by his sides. "I know you do!"

George was taken aback. This was new. This was more like a John thing to snap in rage. Go for a fight. Heck, he also did that often lately. Never Paul. He was the diplomat. Polite guy. Would yell back sure thing; wouldn't be the first to yell, though. In front of such a new situation, he tried to gain some time, repeating his calming hand movement.

"Come on Paul, calm down you're not thinking-"

"Don't George," he was stopped by a growl. His hands froze mid-air as a pointed finger was shoved at himself. "Where is your so-called honesty? Avoiding me?"

His eyes squinted, glaring at the red-faced man. Well, if it was a confrontation he wanted: time to throw away the peace and love image.

"So what! You think you're any better?" He accused back, flinging his arms in the air. Tone rising, Paul slightly flinched. "After the shit you pulled today, shouldn't I think the same? Do you hate me back, Paul?"

In the back of his head, his control was tugging, reminding him not to let himself be blinded by anger. After all, Paul still seemed out of it: he had closed himself off abruptly when George had shouted. Not recoiling from the argument, but displeased by George's reaction. A little sneer and dejected eyes. Then it all became blank again.

"... No, I don't."

Another huff of satisfaction: there now this question was answered. George was tired of wasting his time on obvious things. His arms went back to his sides; his shoulders were tense.

"Then you get why I don't hate you either. It's not because you've been a royal pain in the ass that I stopped lovin-"

"That's what I don't understand!" Another sharp and loud shout: this time an outburst so powerful he actually stepped back, furrowed brows jumping up. Paul's fists trembled. His nose was flaring, he was slightly bent forward as he yelled. So far away from the diplomatic facade he had worn so often; still not sober enough then. An openly enraged Paul was rarer. "If that's true, then why are you always so bitter to me? What did I do to make you so mad at me, all the time?! What did I do to make you stop loving me?"

That fucked it. His feeble self-control was gone with just a sentence. Why make such an effort not to be blinded by his anger, when Paul didn't even try to see! He- he was ignoring him: his emotions, his thoughts, his opinions; his life! How could he fucking ask why? How-

If someone had to make him fucking see, it would be him. 

"What did you- Everything!" He lashed out. "Everything Paul! Every- you're never listening to me! You're always belittling me and making me feel like the daftest piece of shit in the world, as if I wasn’t fucking good enough and- oh no, don't give me that look," he pointed at him the moment his droopy eyes fell down to the floor. Bloody- he wouldn't stop now. " Everything is true! That’s how you make me feel! I know it's not your intention, but you just- you try so hard to fix something, but you're just breaking it more!"

"That's not true!" Paul's head snapped back up, outrage painting his features. His balled fists were clenched so tightly, trembling. The "cute Beatle" facade had been blown away in a second. Mr. Polite, PR man: all gone. A raw Paul in front of George, with his ugly anger and betrayed hurt. Denying everything. "I'm not breaking anything! You're wrong! I love you George and I love the band! I’d never break it, I’m the only one trying to fix it! You're wrong I'm not belittling ya and-"

"Paul," he interrupted him. He raised his hand in front of him. And waited a second. Hearing their breaths. Preventing another explosion. He stalled for time. However, that didn't imply he would suddenly be easy on Paul. Oh no, he would keep expressing himself honestly. There was no point hiding the truth now. Besides, when would he get the chance to unload the hurt he always carried alone on someone else? When would he get another chance to make Paul see? To make him understand. It was the first time in so long since Paul asked him something. It was the first time in years that Paul didn't back down from a confrontation with him. They were communicating: badly, but they were. So much better than avoiding each other…

He exhaled, hoping the next sentence wouldn't set off his friend again: Paul looked barely calmed. Less angry; his breaths were shallow and his pupils dilated.

Explaining, he shut his eyes: fuck he was drained already.

"You're not doing it on purpose, and I'm probably breaking it too; but that's how I feel. I'm not the only one. You're trying to do right, but you're hurting us. Me," bloody- his voice cracked. Control yourself George… "And yourself."

Something changed in Paul's demeanor: all of the sudden, he wasn't frantically furious; he shook his head, repeatedly, feverishly. He was recoiling away, grimacing: looking sick. Not believing a word. It was as if he was blocking everything out, but couldn't manage it. He was failing, drowning, not accepting it. Yet he had to. George was shoving his truth to his face: there was no going back. The first whines caught George out of guard, and he felt… worried once again. The cry that followed did not. With a ghastly face twisted in hurt, feebly trying to grasp onto something, Paul cried out one last time:

“I’m just trying to save the band!”

“But you’re not! You’re not! You’re- you know what would work? If you could save yourself, you’d save us all!”

And George had yelled back. Shouted. Tore the silence of the night. Making Paul freeze, eyes wide, mouth agape, limbs shaking. George was puffing, ragged breathing. He had said it now. He had told Paul. That he needed help.

He pressed his palms on his eyes; god what a fucking night. Sighing dejectedly, his hands slid off his face. No more anger, no more shouting; he was exhausted. Exhausted and worried. About Paul.

With another shaky exhale, he uttered:

“But you’re not… you've drowned, Paul. Everyday, I see you at the studio, and I don't recognize you anymore; you're dying. How do you want to save anything from under the waters? How can you try to save us, the band, when you're so empty? You can’t. If you saved yourself, you might have managed. Now… ‘s too late. And- and it fucking hurts: to witness it, without being able to do anything about it.”

Silence. Only their breaths.

George had no energy left. He- he did it; he had said it. What was on his heart, was finally out in the open. For once, Paul had left him to speak. But, he hadn't had much hope. It was still Paul: he liked to control everything, thrived on being Mr. Perfect, wanted to fix everyone else and not himself. Admitting he wasn't all that, that he was tainted and in need of help, was a step Paul wouldn't take. George thought that. He didn't believe that Paul could change. He wanted to, really… but no. No, not Paul. He was too far gone. Out of reach. There was no way he'd let him-

“And how am I supposed to… help myself?" George's eyes flew to Paul's face: he was looking down, hands gripped together and close to his mouth, biting his nails; his eyes were still dilated, but they were glazed once again. As if… God, had Paul really considered what he had said? This was… too good to be true.

As a matter of fact, when realization dawned on him, Paul retracted, in a panic. "I- no forget it. No, no, I-I can't do that… I- I'm not ok, George, I know. But…"

“Just let me in!" He advanced and caught Paul's hands in his. Oh no, he wasn't losing this: Paul wasn't going to give up. In a softer tone, he reassured him, making eye contact through all of it. These gorgeous hazel eyes, looking not so dead anymore. "Let me help. You and the band. As equals, we- we can take care of each other, and I can work more for the band. I can do this. For once, don't try to help me when I don't need it. Let me help you. And we will be ok. Please.”

This was one last desperate attempt at the end of the tunnel. He was peering into these morphing eyes, his words hanging in the air. Outside, it was raining: drops hitting the glass of his windows and wind slamming on the opened blinds were proof of the storm. They were the iris of the storm, Paul and him. The centre of an unbalanced nature. Face to face. Waiting for an answer. The final note of the night.

A puff of air on his face: they were so close to each other right on, that Paul's exhale warmed his cheeks. Glistening brown and blue colors met his chocolate eyes.

"Ok… ok, ok I-" Paul stopped. Swallowed the lump in his throat. George squeezed his hands, encouraging him quietly. When Paul talked again, it was with a small cracking voice. Uttering words George could never fathom Paul would ever say:

"Then help me."

...

He- 

Oh god he did it... he- Paul had accepted George's help.

Unbelievable. They fell on each other and the weights on their shoulders were gone. They breathed in unison, in harmony, faces nuzzling each other's necks: it was all over.

The next minutes were a blur. The only thing he knew was that Paul ended up in his arms and George was pressing him to his chest as he kissed him fervently. Then they were on the bed and were not thinking anymore. It was no good to them anyway. He had taken their clothes off, dragged the cover over them and they humped on each other, gripping each other, desperate to touch and feel. They whispered their names, quietly then loudly, and it was all done in a frenzy, scrambling to express more than they had managed until now. George never let Paul go, and Paul had his hands on George's sides, firmly. It all happened instinctually, for there were no more communications, and none of them seemed to be conscious of what they were doing. Perhaps, this was how they sought to seal the pact that had been made. Perhaps, that was what they needed to do to make sure all of this was real. They didn't know. George didn't recall much from it all: what he knew was that when they finished, Paul was crumbling on George's chest and he could hear barely muffled sobs. Breaking on top of George; breaking his heart. This on itself reminded him there was a lot to repair. He didn't mind: he could finally help to fix this mess.

He turned Paul to his side. Facing each other once again. His arms and legs latched onto Paul and he dragged him impossibly closer to him, crawling on his skin. One hand was gripping Paul's back while the other was running through his hair; one leg on his while the other rested in between. His cheeks pressed to Paul's who was still nuzzling his neck and he whispered small "shhh" and "it's ok", stroking his hair; not admitting there were tears gliding down his cheeks as well. They looked like two depressed and crying morons. George didn't care. He had Paul and Paul had him.They hadn't touched in so long…

Their troubles weren't fixed, hadn't magically vanished; they were elevated off their backs so they could be together for a second. As they had been so freely before 1968, when such moments were ordinary. When it was ok to love. When it wasn't so uncertain. George was back to his first time with Paul: young, shy, but loud and bold, with Paul patient, giggling, berating him with his malicious eyes; awkward, but funny and loving. Now… it seemed so impossible to attain such a level of trust and complicity. But as Paul's cries subsided and as George's tears dried, the comfort he was offering to Paul was returned: one of Paul's hands slipped to the nape of his neck, squeezing it as his other hand rested on his cheek. He felt Paul's head shift, and he was delivering close-mouthed kisses around his jaw and lips. The lashes of his eyes were tingling on George's skin, who sighed under the ministrations. Who turned to mush. As if this one breath had contained all the energy that he had left. Defenceless against such modest gestures of affection and love. He had missed them.

Yes, perhaps this was nowhere close to as it was before; he wouldn't trade what he had right now for anything else. Paul's legs were enclosing one of his, and he had pushed his chest forward on his, and he was still leaving pecks all over his face, never stopping. All light contacts of his lips, a silent message of love, making George melt. He could only massage Paul's scalp harder in thanks. It was… warm and loving. No more cold and bitter. The storm outside had calmed.

It wasn't how he had envisioned this night to go; this was much better than whatever he had planned first. He had been heard, Paul had accepted his help, and they were together: again.

They stayed like this for an indefinite amount of time. It must have been late, for whenever he blinked, it took more effort each time to open them again. They had barely begun to fix anything, yet he just wanted to sleep. Paul gazed at him, with a faint smile tugging at his lips. Their noses were practically touching. A short break, before Paul took his chin and drew George in another kiss. This time their tongues collided, but it was slow, tentative, languid. It was gentle on his mind: a tranquil ocean.

When Paul made to withdraw, George prevented it, directing Paul's head back to his neck. He inhaled, relaxed. Finally, peace and love at last.

"You still smell like home," he whispered, hair brushing his nose. He heard Paul chuckling against his ear, before he joked:

"Does home smell like vomit and alcohol?"

And George couldn't prevent it: he was snorting and pushing Paul away, trying in vain not to laugh at the mean joke Paul made about himself; the goofy grin on Paul's face changed his mind, and he was fully giggling. Like a kid.

"You showered you idiot!"

They were both giggling and it felt good. So good, their forehead fell on each other and they blissfully smiled. Calm and comfy.

The cover was keeping them warm, huddled together, cuddling. Their eyes were closed, and it was alright. George felt he was about to fall asleep, but Paul prevented it. He had one last thing to say:

"I love you, you know?"

George unclosed his eyes: Paul was staring again, unsure. George hummed and brushed his nose against his.

"Of course I do. And I love you too. It'll be ok."

He whispered another "ok?" asking Paul, wanting to be certain he wasn't backing down on everything that had been said tonight. Paul nodded. He nodded rapidly, then it became slower, then it stopped: his head rested on the pillow, his eyes closed, and with one last breath, he fell to slumber. Leaving George to his thoughts as he played with his hair.

In the end it was all his fault. It was Paul's fault that he still loved him. Him listening to George, him actually coming to his house in a vulnerable moment, him giving George hope about the future; the band breaking apart but them not breaking apart. The quiet _"George"s_ , the silent _"ok"_ , the powerful _"help me"_ , the sumptuous _"I love you"_. All his worries, worth it. His Paul, against his chest, sleeping peacefully, in adorable tranquility. George, heart too full, too big, overwhelmed with affection, defeated by hope. If he believed in this, it could work out. If he believed in Paul, it would be ok. And he did. Because tonight, Paul had proven he could listen to George, that they were equal, and that he trusted George to support him. He put a feeble kiss on his lover's forehead: George trusted him and he trusted George. It was alright.

Sleep was pulling him away. No matter how hard he tried to resist, to stay in this loving moment that he was unsure would happen the day after, his eyelids were dropping, and his hands couldn't move anymore. It was over. It was the end of the day. He crawled closer, one last time. And soon, he was drifting away.

With Paul.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading it all ^^ I hope you liked it!! (Pls do) Dont hesitate to leave a comment to tell me what you liked, what you thought, a fav thing, or anything really ! It'll make my day 
> 
> Once again, I wish you a happy new year !! May this be better year for us all, and may you find times to relax when you need it. Keep going, and take care 💙 Stay safe 💙


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